


Wolf Pile

by kell_be_belle



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Fluff, Found Family, Gen, Platonic Cuddling, Platonic Relationships, Prompt Fill, Sugar and Spice Witcher Bingo, geraskier mentioned, no beta we die like renfri
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-23
Updated: 2021-02-23
Packaged: 2021-03-13 23:35:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,283
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29659047
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kell_be_belle/pseuds/kell_be_belle
Summary: The lives of witchers are frought with peril, every day carries with it the distinct possibility of being the last. When all return to Kaer Morhen whole and alive, the witchers- and one unwitting bard- find themselves celebrating their homecoming in an unexpectedly tender fashion.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 30
Collections: Sugar and Spice Witcher Bingo





	Wolf Pile

**Author's Note:**

> Jaskier loves the witchers, the witchers love Jaskier. I don't make up the rules, this is just how it is. Written for the [Sugar and Spice Witcher Bingo](https://sugar-and-spice-witcher-bingo.tumblr.com/) Event as a fill for the prompt "Reunion". This is mostly platonic between Jaskier and the wolves, but there is some mentioned Geraskier that I just couldn't resist tucking away in there. Find me on [Tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/view/kell-be-belle) and [Twitter](https://twitter.com/kell_be_belle)

The smell of dinner still hung in the air, mingled with the prevailing scent of damp and age that seemed to occupy every corner and crevice of the keep. Pork loin roasted to a succulent perfection topped with an apple chutney alongside fingerling potatoes and parsnips. Jaskier had expected himself to spend the winter months at Kaer Morhen gnawing at slabs of jerky and slurping down watery soups which made the excellence of the dinner an unexpected, but exceedingly pleasant surprise. 

Who knew witchers could cook?

It had been nearly a week since Geralt had delivered the two of them unto the imposing steps of Kaer Morhen and life was beginning to settle into a steady pace. Mornings were dedicated to training. Witchers could not afford to let their skills dull even when there were no drowners to dispatch or ekhidnas to eliminate. Jaskier had taken to observing them, accompanying their routines with the idle strummings of his lute. It was quite the spectacle to behold without the inherent threat of danger. 

Afternoons were spent on various chores like tending the livestock or doing the laundry. Everyone took turns, rotating through some of the more monotonous or undesirable tasks to help keep the tensions to a minimum. Jaskier was no exception to this. If he planned on being a guest of Kaer Morhen, then he, too, was expected to help in maintaining its upkeep. Though nobility by birth, Jaskier was not adverse to such domestic tasks and threw himself heartily into their performance. The last thing he wanted was Geralt’s brothers thinking of him as some sort of freeloading cad though he was, admittedly, at times exactly that. 

Evenings were for recreation, or whatever passed for recreation amongst a group of business-minded witchers. Oftentimes that meant practical pastimes like sword sharpening, armor patching, or committing their freshly collected knowledge to the vast repository that was the library. They were not entirely without their fun, however. Sometimes it meant real recreation such as fiercely competitive games of Gwent, exburtant displays of drinking prowess, and- in Geralt and Jaskier’s case- a delightful little romp in a secluded alcove or abandoned room. 

It was a life that was uneventful, but after a year of monsters, money, and mayhem, perhaps that was exactly what the wolves needed most. 

Jaskier sighed heavily, throwing the last of the freshly washed dishes in the rack so it could dry among its brothers. Though he had rolled up his sleeves before setting to task, he had still managed to thoroughly soak through the cuffs of his chemise. Soap bubbles smudged his cheek and he begrudgingly swiped them away with the heel of his hand. Such domestic skills were not counted amongst the Seven Liberal Arts. At the very least, his skills in cleaning outweighed the absolute horror show that was his cooking and so here he was. 

Jaskier hefted the washing bin with a strangled grunt. He did his best not to slosh it down his front as he carried it across the kitchen to the window. He was already damp enough. Unfastening the latch, Jaskier cried out as the pane flung in towards him and sent the biting winter wind howling into the room. The fire in the hearth sputtered and snuffed. Jaskier quickly dumped the sloppy dish water out the window. He wouldn’t be surprised if it had already frozen halfway down the wall. The people who built Kaer Morhen couldn’t have chosen to erect their fortress in a location further south? There were plenty of grand, imposing mountains near Temeria and Aedirn. Better yet, Toussaint! Jaskier adored Toussaint. Oh, the things he wouldn’t do for a patch of sunshine and freshly uncorked bottle of Est Est about now.

With more effort than what should have been necessary Jaskier pushed the window shut; shivering miserably as he drove the latch home. The wind still rattled in his chest and left him feeling hollowed out. His hands were raw and chapped and he bemoaned their state and he wrung them together for warmth. He regretted not purchasing more of his favorite beeswax balm before settling in for the winter. At this rate, he would be lucky if his hands survived to see another spring. 

Jaskier made no effort to make himself presentable. He was simply much too worn out to be bothered with such pretenses. He planned only on returning to his room, anyway. Jaskier tugged his doublet from where he had hung it on a peg beside a flour splattered apron and shuffled from the kitchen. 

The corridors of Kaer Morhen were sparsely lit. Deep breadths of shadows pooled between the scantly placed sconces like the darkness between blinks. Meant for witchers, Jaskier had to remind himself. An inconvenience to his unfortunately human senses, but he was steadily acclimating. This cold, though. It was just as wretched now as it had been at the beginning and was only getting worse. Heating the entire keep was a Sisyphian task. Efforts were, instead, focused on the most commonly inhabited areas- the bedrooms, the kitchen, the lounge, small hall, and library. Moving between them was like rotating between pools in a bathhouse. One had to shuffle along swiftly enough as to not allow the cold air to settle before sinking into the balmy warmth once more.

Jaskier was shuffling in said manner, his boots making a soft scuffing against the worn stone floor. As soon as he got to his room he was going to stoke that fire to a dangerous level and then bury himself beneath every fur he could sink his greedy little fingers into. Would it be possible to just hibernate there for the rest of the winter? He wondered what would it take to convince Geralt to bring him his meals? 

Schemes involving copious amounts of flattery twisted in Jaskier’s head as he arrived at the doors to the lounge. They were cracked open slightly and light spilled through, bisecting the corridor like a border that could not be crossed. A chasm too dangerous to traverse. Jaskier found himself unwittingly pausing before it. It was undoubtedly warm in there and his body ached to feel it take him in. Jaskier thought briefly of joining the witchers and their enterprises, but exhaustion weighed on him like a yoke about his shoulders. With months of this bitter winter yet to endure, there would be plenty more opportunities for evening comradery. For now, Jaskier longed only for the warmth of his bed and the oblivion of sleep. 

Still, curiosity flared small and insistent in his mind and Jaskier found himself peering through the opening. He supposed it couldn’t hurt to at least see what they were up to. Perhaps bid them all a final goodnight and sweet dreams before retiring. 

What Jaskier found was rather unexpected. 

Inside the lounge were the witchers, which, of course, wasn’t the unexpected part. The unexpected part was that they weren’t all sequestered to their favored armchairs or cushions set to their menial activities. Instead they were huddled together on the woven rug before the merrily crackling fireplace in what Jaskier could only describe as a pile. The light cast from the well stoked hearth behind clung to collected silhouettes in a lambent halo. Jaskier blinked against it. Their afterimage burned like brand in the darkness behind his eyelids. When his eyes had adjusted, he looked again. 

The witchers were situated in various positions of repose; heads resting on the mountains of shoulders and nestled in the valleys of laps. Limbs entwined together like the bodies of serpents and fingers entangled in hair and clothing. Nothing about the display was sexual, but it had such a profound sensation of intimacy that Jaskier’s stomach clenched with guilt. It felt as though he were witnessing something not meant to be seen. Not by the likes of him. 

It felt as though Jaskier were an invader. This was hallowed ground and he was not worthy of treading it. 

Regardless, Jaskier found he could not bring himself to look away. Gravity had shifted and he was hopelessly trapped in the orbit of their resplendence. His breath was taken by the sight, trapped painfully behind his sternum. He had travelled with Geralt for years, had met his brothers on the path, but never had he seen this kind of tenderness pass between them. There were embraces, the brush of foreheads against one another, a hearty clap between shoulder blades, but this… this was something all it’s own. It lived. It breathed. It’s heart fluttered in time with the rise and fall of the fire in the hearth. Jaskier could feel it holding them all together as if in embrace. 

Jaskier then understood what this was. It was a reunion. 

Every spring, the wolves of Kaer Morhen set off on the path not knowing whether or not they would return the following winter. The lives they lead were fraught with peril and each day carried with it the distinct possibility of being the last. To arrive home to these crumbling steps, to see the same faces gathered around the dinner table, it was a blessing. A cause for celebration. This was a homecoming. An expression of happiness and gratitude that they were once more spending the season together. Alive. Whole. 

Drawn in by the warmth like a moth to flame, Jaskier unwittingly pressed himself against the door. The old iron hinges released a half-hearted protest as his weight and it sent his heart rabbiting in his chest. He felt like a criminal. A street urchin with a loaf of stolen bread clutched in his grubby fingers. He whirled and pressed himself against the wall, breath trapped in his throat for fear of being found. A useless effort since he was attempting to hide from witchers and not dulled down school children. 

“Jaskier.” It was Geralt’s voice that floated out to him as if carried by the spring breeze. It caught Jaskier like a fish on a line, drawing him back to the threshold of the lounge. He hesitated a moment. When he opened the door, what would he find? He feared the scene he witnessed was nothing more than an exhaustion driven fantasy and would find the witchers once again sequestered to their armchairs and cushions with the swords in their laps or books in their hands. 

Jaskier wormed a hand in the space between the doors, drew them open wide enough so that his face peered balefully through them. 

In the multitude of years that Jaskier had spent trailing Geralt back and forth across the continent, he could not recall ever seeing him so wholly and utterly content. He blinked slowly, rolled his head languidly in Jaskier’s direction. If Jaskier didn’t know any better, he would have dared to say it was drunkenness. The curve of his teeth peeked from between his lips as they drew back in a smile. The expression seemed so natural that Jaskier suddenly found himself wondering if he had imagined the last ten years of Geralt’s constant scowling. 

Geralt untangled his fingers from where they had been slotted between Lambert’s, raising his hand with the scared palm facing up in what could only be interpreted as an invitation. Jaskier felt the breath leave him one great rush, struck by the magnitude of what he was being offered. How… how could he possibly accept? It wasn’t that he had no desire. Melitele help him, he wanted nothing more to bury himself among them and bask in their glow like the afternoon sun. But was it truly alright? Geralt loved him, that he knew, but what of the others? 

“Jaskier.” Came his name again, this time in the deeper baritone of Eskel. His eyes glinted in a knowing way and he winked as if he could read the very thoughts racing through Jaskier’s mind. “Come on, it’s alright.” The shape of his grin was skewed by the gnarled scars on his cheek, but that only succeeded in making it more charming. 

“Don’t just stand there gawking like some half demented owl.” Lambert’s face was turned from him, but there was an ease to the way he held himself. There was warmth underneath the sharp edge of his voice. “If you’re going to join us, just join us.”

Vesemir did not speak. He opened his eyes briefly and considered Jaskier a moment before closing them once more and settling back against Eskel with a contented huff. Like an old dog abiding to the whims of younger pups. 

Jaskier’s heart suddenly felt too large for his chest. It pressed against the cage of ribs, swelled into the spaces between them. To think that the witchers could look upon his face and be glad that he, too, has seen it through another year. That he, too, is here alive and whole. It was more than he deserved. It was more than anything he could have ever wanted.

Jaskier stepped fully into the room, crossing to the piles of wolves, and slipping his palm into Geralt’s waiting one. 

Warm, calloused hands reached out to him and drew them into the fold and he sunk into their collected embrace like a pad of butter atop freshly baked bread. Someone brushed the fringe from his forehead, another pressed a palm in the space between his shoulder blades. The warmth of their bodies was cloying and encompassing, but it was one Jaskier would happily drown himself in. Love was not a feeling Jaskier would say he was unfamiliar with, but as he found himself awash in this tenderness, he wondered if he had ever truly understood what it meant.

Now, he was sure he did.


End file.
